What your NYC delivery order says about your life
Originally, the Ellis Island plaque read: "Those who don’t learn from their food-delivery histories are doomed to repeat them". Believe that? Then you’ll definitely buy these totally scientific sketches that break down the psychological implications of New Yorkers' to-go orders.
Call out your poor, your tired, and your wretched friends for their weird ordering habits, by tagging them in the comments.
Pad Thai: Too lazy to make pasta, too hungry to push through ‘til morning on Stacy’s Pita Chips & crusty hummus, this vat of slithery noodles is all-too-often your exotic companion on lonely DVR adventures. Once, you trusted one of those pan-Asian delivery joints to provide sustenance for your SVU marathon, and one brown, saucy vat led to another. Never again.
Shrimp scampi: Your Twitter bio reads: “Keeping it classy, 140 characters at a time”. Ocean’s 13 is your all-time favorite movie. Man, those guys are smooth! No, your office doesn’t have a dress code — you just like wearing contrast-collar, French-cuffed shirts, alright?!
Slice of artisanal pizza: Technically, you were born in Westchester, but ever since junior year at Mamaroneck High, you knew the city was where you’d end up. It has SO MUCH to offer! Your Instagram is littered with pictures of truffle fries (“#uhmaze”) and your dog, who you see all the time because you take Metro North home pretty much every weekend.
Slice from the place down the block.You know, that one with the ATM: Technically, you were born in Westchester, but that doesn’t stop you from going to Penny Farthing solely to lament the closure of “real” New Yorker spots. Sometimes, you practice saying “fuggedaboutit” in front of the mirror.
Liquor: When you first moved in, someone told you this was “a real drinker’s town”. That always stuck with you, even though it’s failed to resonate with ex-girlfriends, former bosses, and street-meat dudes whose carts you’ve puked on.
Only from a place with five stars on Yelp: You sweep your modest-but-cozy Hell’s Kitchen studio each night before bed. This whole Hudson Yards project concerns you — won’t the construction attract rodents? You tell everyone you love going out, but by the time you’re done with a two-hour steam at Equinox, you usually just head home for some “you time”.
Whole Foods/Fresh Direct groceries: You belong to a rooftop garden co-op, but only go to avoid getting kicked out. To describe your experience watching Chopped episodes as “sexual” is to overstate how much you enjoy sex. It’s really just a distraction from shopping for a new Tungsten-blade fillet knife. You think you’re single by choice, which is adorable.
A ton of bodega groceries: Not to brag, but you’re a pretty damn good cook. Grilled cheese? Comin’ right up! Something else? Shut the hell up! You sublet a tiny, windowless room in Kips Bay to save dough for your chief expenses: Xbox Live and NY Islanders t-shirt jerseys.
A cheeseburger… MEDIUM RARE: Each time, your burger arrives with a soggy bun. You’re convinced it’s the restaurant’s fault, but never call to complain. “Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it”, you mutter with self-disgust.
A catering tray of pulled pork: You’re from Northern Virginia, but that didn’t stop you from adopting an egregious Texas accent and pledging DKE as a first-year at UVa. You send out PaperlessPost invites for your famous* alumni “bourbon bashes”, and people RSVP directly to your address instead of using the service, which drives you nuts. (*In no way famous.)
Steak frites: You enjoy the finer things in life. Not like, the actual things themselves, but the phrase “the finer things in life”. If/when you actually go to the chophouse, you tell everyone that you order these frites at home once a week. They’re the best in the city, and besides, you’re doing very well for yourself, so why shouldn’t you?
A “student special” from one of those weird NYU restaurants: “It wasn’t until I grabbed my hypoallergenic body pillow & slammed the trunk of Dad’s Isuzu Trooper, that it hit me. I can do whatever I want! NO PARENTS!” — your Xanga, which you still update from an Internet cafe on St. Marks to this very day.
The very same place you got lunch from: You’ve been happily married to your spouse since senior year at OSU. Go Buckeyes! By the way, while you have our attention, you’d just like to say that the honeymooners in Forgetting Sarah Marshall are a bunch of baloney! That’s not what your marriage is like at all.
A pre-made, semi-circle deli panini, and an energy drink: Not even your fellow mods on the /r/sailormoon subreddit know your first name. People wonder, “who actually shows up to these community board liquor license hearings Eater is always writing about”, and the answer is you. You’ve been quietly adding false info to Wikipedia’s Jimmy Hoffa page for years.
36 chicken wings with honey-bourbon glaze: After your last break-up, you made yourself business cards that officially list you as “Party Rocker In Your House Toniiiiiight!” Daughtry, of the pop-country crossover sensation Daughtry, is your idol. You love the idea of shower beers, but can’t really figure out how to do it. This maddens you.
Brioche French toast and a side of extra-crispy bacon: As a self-proclaimed “work-hard/play-hard social media guru”, you drank SO much last night. And the night before that, too. And again tonight. Each month, you attempt to expense a rent check’s-worth of Uber receipts, which your boss consistently rejects. You’re dating Medium-Rare Cheeseburger Dude, and think he might be The One.
Three beef & broccolis. You know, for leftovers: To optimize your membership to Secaucus’ Sam’s Club, you joined ZipCar. Doomsday Preppers is your favorite show, BY. FAR. When people come to your apartment, you wheel out a wholesale pallet of toilet paper, demanding, “Who’s the crazy one now?!?” It’s you. It’s always been you.
A large kale salad with dressing on the side: Before NYC, you had a condo in Charlotte, NC, where you jogged around man-made reservoirs on immaculate running paths with your golden retriever, Shep. You worry about your coworkers eyesight — they spend so many hours staring at their phones! Twice weekly, you price out Costa Rican yoga retreats, but will never get the courage to do it. You really just want to move back to Charlotte.
Extra condiments, forks, chopsticks, napkins: From HBOGo to WiFi to AmazonPrime, you're not actually paying for any of your accounts. Last time you dragged your freeloading ass home, it was for laundry and home-cooked meals, and while there, you secretly set up a SlingBox on your parents’ cable jack. What?! It’s not hurting anyone!
From a place 45-60min away from you: You don’t have time for instructions! You’re busy! Why is this IKEA coffee table falling apart!
Soup dumplings, which ALWAYS arrive punctured: You’ve been mugged a few times since moving here, but the one thing this city can’t take from you is your boundless sense of optimism. "It’s New Freakin’ York, guys!" That said, you’ve been ordering in a lot, because you really can’t afford to get mugged again.
In the snow/rain/bad weather: The idea of a moral quandary is, itself, a quandary to you. If someone tries to tell you Horatio Alger was a parable, you will argue vehemently, then email-bomb them with political thinkpieces from an Ayn Rand message board you frequent for months afterward. You LOVE the tipping scene from Reservoir Dogs.
Just because it’s hot outside: You live in a fourth-floor walkup on Broome Street. Every time you move, steamy garbage air creeps further into your nostrils. Wait, your vision just sorta flickered. Is it in your brain?! You secretly hope the dude bringing your gazpacho calls the DOH, but you have too much pride to do so yourself.
You get the soda/spring roll add-ons: You’ll always get the supplemental insurance on your car rental no matter how many times LifeHacker explains its redundancy. You’ve overdrawn your checking account approximately 72 times, usually to pay for extra legroom in economy. LifeHacker hates that, too. You sort of hate LifeHacker, except for that one piece on “How to avoid overdrawing your checking account”. So funny!
From the place directly next to your apartment: Get your lazy ass off the couch, man.
Dave Infante is an Editor for Thrillist Media Group, and heard “Piano Man” for the first time last night. Can you believe that?! Yes? Then follow him on Twitter @dinfontay.